


Perfectly Balanced

by HoopyFrood



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Banter, Developing Relationship, Flirting, M/M, POV Alternating, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 05:31:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13780743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoopyFrood/pseuds/HoopyFrood
Summary: Rafael runs hot. Sonny feels the cold. Together they manage to strike a perfect balance.





	Perfectly Balanced

Rafael’s day is going about as well as any day in 1 Hogan Place could ever possibly go. 

His only scheduled meeting finished ten minutes early, he’s answered all his e-mails, had an arraignment pushed back by a week, and just got a call through from Braun to say his client has accepted the generous plea bargain Rafael offered yesterday afternoon.

He hates days like these. 

For most people, boasting that you thrive under pressure is nothing more than a résumé cliché, something to fill up the space between _works well with others_ and _detail-oriented_. For Rafael, it’s the only way he’s able to work without going stark raving mad. Because no pressure means no stress, and no stress means time to _think_. And who wants to be left alone with your own thoughts and feelings? Not him that’s who.

He drops his head back onto his chair with a loud exhale. He can only rearrange all the little knick-knacks spread across his desk so much in one day before the illusion of productivity is officially shattered and he’s instead forced to do, he cringes in disgust at the mere thought of it, _administration_. Though a necessary evil, he’s usually able to foist the likes of personnel reviews and budget monitoring off onto an ADA with a lighter caseload. Unfortunately, that’s looking less and less likely today unless something or _someone_ —

A cheerful knock to the door has him automatically sitting back up and by the time he’s swiped his fingers across his laptop’s mousepad to wake it from sleep mode he’s already carefully arranged his expression into his default vague disinterest.

“Come in.”

The door creaks open and a familiar blond head pops in through the gap. “Hey, Counselor, sorry to bother you,” Carisi greets before pushing it open fully and slipping his lanky form inside.

Rafael relaxes, his finely tuned mask slipping away to reveal something a little more genuine. It seems as if he’s been sent a reprieve in the form of ridiculous blue eyes and a Staten Island drawl. And what a reprieve it is. Carisi cuts a fine figure in his slim fitting navy three-piece and trademark slicked back hair, a patchy red to his cheeks the only indication he’d perhaps rushed over from the precinct. And to think he’d been only a few minutes away from opening YouTube and looking up cat videos.

“Detective, always a pleasure,” he says warmly and Carisi’s professionally polite smile deepens into a friendly dimpled grin. “What can I do for you today?”

He eyes the beige folder in the younger man’s hands, imagination already running wild with what could be printed onto the innocent looking sheets of paper it hides, when Carisi sighs in that heavy, world-weary way only someone else in law enforcement could ever truly understand. 

“We got a tip off about that recent string of music venue assaults and it sounds like we’re after more than just one person. Maybe even a ring. Which means the attacks have been organised, coordinated—”

“Planned,” Rafael chimes in and they share a look of commiseration. There’s always something particularly heinous about a group of people turning misery and pain into a business opportunity. Blackmail, revenge, or just sickos paying to get their rocks off in the most violent way; any and all could be a possibility if there’s a demand for it. And, unfortunately, there often is. “Who knows how deep the rot goes. Bar staff, security, _management_. Do I sense some undercover work in your not so distant future?”

“It definitely looks that way,” Carisi agrees through a weak laugh. It’s no secret that Carisi relishes going undercover, but the man’s a total bleeding heart, it must be difficult to reconcile something you not only enjoy but are also genuinely _good_ at with wishing there wasn’t a need for you to do it in the first place. He may be lapsed, but Rafael knows just how powerful of a thing Catholic guilt can be. “Anyway, thought it best to get you up to speed. The sooner we can sort out the necessary warrants the better,” he adds, waving the folder in the air.

“Well, no time like the present,” Rafael says and holds out his hand.

As he passes it over, Rafael’s fingers briefly close over Carisi’s, trapping them against the folder. It’s a fleeting, inconsequential thing, the sort of touch shared daily between anyone from strangers brushing past each other on the street to lovers standing shoulder to shoulder at the kitchen sink as they share the night’s washing up. Rafael would usually pay such a touch no mind, but Carisi snatches his hand back with a yelp as if burnt.

The folder drops down between them, making a thwack sound as it hits the desk top. Rafael stares at it for a couple of seconds then looks back up at Carisi, unimpressed.

“And they let you carry a firearm?” He questions dryly.

Carisi braces himself against the edge of Rafael’s desk, inadvertently knocking into the _A.D.A. Rafael Barba_ name plate and pushing it up against the antique brass lamp in his haste. Rafael holds his breath as it wobbles precariously, his mug of coffee in danger of being propelled across his laptop if it tumbles over, but it soon stills, the wide base ultimately keeping it upright. “Are you feeling okay?” Carisi asks, his brow a tight knot of concern.

Crisis averted, Rafael leans back and lets the shift in his body weight gently roll his chair backwards until he has enough room to swing his legs up onto the desk. He crosses them at the ankles and regards Carisi coolly. “Charming.”

“What? No that’s not— You look great,” he insists, visibly blanching when Rafael raises an amused eyebrow. “I mean— You _know_ what I mean. It’s just, you’re really hot.”

Rafael lets that hang in the air for a few moments, relishing the expression of dawning realisation as it slowly blooms across Carisi’s face.

“Incredible. Truly incredible.”

Standing back up to his full height, Carisi calmly smooths down the front of his suit. “Yeah, okay, I’m just going to go out and come back in so I can start over,” he says, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb. “Or better yet, go and never, _ever_ come back.”

Reluctantly charmed in a way that’s becoming shockingly common when around Carisi, Rafael allows himself a small puff of laugher. “Sit down, Carisi,” he says, waiting until the man in question has grudgingly folded his long limbs into one of the chairs opposite his desk before continuing. “I’m not ill,” he assures him.

Sonny scoffs and crosses his arms defensively across his chest. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe the workaholic that he’s not ill when the alternative would mean a few days off to,” he pauses to fake a gasp, “ _rest_. There’s a nasty bug going round at the moment. Half the precinct is currently out of commission with it.”

Rafael rolls his eyes, irritation already beginning to eat away at any lingering fondness. It’s always an emotional roller-coaster with this man. “Then I’ll alert Carmen to stock up on Tylenol and boxes of Kleenex but seriously, I’m _fine_. I just run hot.”

And it’s true. He always has. His abuelita used to say it was the Cuban blood running through his veins. Whenever he found himself hobbling home with a scraped knee or the teasing from the local kids got too much, too _vicious_ , she’d lick a finger and press it against the nearest slip of exposed skin, making a hissing sound upon contact. _¡Ay, me quemé!_ She’d cry dramatically and his watery sobs would quickly turn into delighted giggles.

As he grew older the ability to run around in t-shirts and shorts when everyone else had been stuffed into uncomfortable sweaters made him the envy of all his friends, while being able to power through hot summer days without _literally_ breaking a sweat definitely earned him a glare or two from his buttoned up teachers.

It was when he started dating that it became a problem. A furnace-hot body to cuddle up close to may be nice in the middle of winter, but any other time of the year it means duvets being kicked off in frustration and waking up alone. It doesn’t make for a particularly harmonious living situation, but that isn’t something Rafael’s had to worry himself with for a while now what with his last long-term relationship having ended sometime around his fortieth.

“There’s hot then there’s scorching,” Sonny counters. He’s still eyeing him critically as if waiting for a cough or sneeze that he can crow _‘Ah hah! See!’_ at, but the grip on his biceps has loosened, the puckering of the fabric caused by him digging in his fingers smoothing out to shallow dips. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely,” Rafael insists. “Now, are you needed back at the precinct?”

Sonny blinks at the non-sequitur before dutifully checking his watch. “Nah, got an hour or so free for lunch once I’m done here, barring any call-outs, of course. Why?”

With a nod, Rafael pulls open the nearest draw and fishes out a handful of takeout menus. “Then stay. We’ll order something in.” 

“Sure,” Carisi agrees easily and begins to awkwardly shrug off his suit jacket. “I mean, there’s not a lot to go over right now, but I’ll be happy to walk you through what we’ve got.”

“As much as I appreciate your gracious offer to hand-hold me through,” Rafael begins, pausing briefly to flip through the previously forgotten folder Carisi had brought him, “five pages worth of notes, that’s not what I meant. It’s...” He trails off in silent deliberation, head cocked to the side in thought, before deciding on an ambiguous, “It’s been a slow day.”

But Carisi has always been quicker on the uptake than a lot of people give him credit for and the admission startles a bark of laugher out of the man in front of him. “Wait, you’re _bored?_ Jeez, what sort of ship are your bosses running if one of their ADAs doesn’t have anything to do?”

“Oh, there’s plenty for me to do, I just don’t want to do any of it. And if I’m busy with one of our loyal, _hardworking_ SVU Detectives well, it can’t be helped that I don’t have the time to start on any of the managerial reports I’ve been putting off, now can it? Consider it your civic duty for the day.”

“As opposed to doing my job of catching criminals, huh?” Carisi questions with a boyishly crooked grin.

Rafael waves his hand dismissively. “Civic responsibility then, pedant.”

“Rafael Barba calling _me_ a pedant,” Carisi muses with a bemused shake of his head. “I didn’t realise your office door had become a gateway into the twilight zone. But anyway, you’re deflecting,” he points out before finally reaching over to reposition the name plate he’d knocked into earlier. Rafael watches as he absentmindedly traces the lettering with a small smile.

“I’d rather you not shout it from the rooftops but what can I say? You’ve brightened my day, _Sonny_ ,” he admits with just enough cloying sweetness to throw him off the scent of truth. It seems to do the trick because Carisi rolls his eyes up towards the ceiling, the silent _‘Lord, give me strength’_ written all over his face.

“Yeah, because I’ve never heard that one before. Surprised you’d sink so low, though.”

“I _am_ a lawyer. It’s practically in the job description.”

Carisi swings his left leg up onto his right, the movement pulling at the fabric of his suit pants to expose a maroon sock that matches his tie. Rafael feels his lips involuntary twitch at the sight. “See, when you say stuff like that, I feel like it’s a slight against me now, too.” 

“Didn’t you get the memo? We’re allowed to call _each other_ egotistical, money grabbing leeches that feed off human suffering, but anyone else? Well, that’s just rude.”

Sonny snaps his fingers and points at Rafael in understanding. “Like how I’ll talk shit about my sisters’ dating habits but if anyone else dares to they better prepare themselves for a bloody nose,” he says, following it with a low, contemplative whistle. “Guess that’s what a Harvard education gets ya, because we definitely skipped Self-Deprecation 101 at Fordham.”

Rafael pulls an exaggerated face of disgust. “Self-deprecation? God, no. That would suggest humility. Yuck.”

Carisi guffaws loudly and Rafael purses his lips into a line to stop himself from matching it, his blood fired up in a way that can’t be explained away with whimsical words of comfort designed to dry a child’s tears.

“Pass ‘em over, then.”

He holds out the menus, his favourite Chinese takeaway strategically placed on top, but Carisi bypasses them entirely and catches Rafael’s wrist instead and _pulls_. They meet in the middle, both leaning half-way across his desk, until Carisi breaches Rafael’s side entirely by pressing the back of his free hand against his forehead.

Ridiculously, Rafael’s struck with the thought that Carisi actually looks his age up close. The puffy bruise-like smudges under his eyes, the thin lines etched into his skin, the stubble that looks more grey than blond under the right light. He wears every small imperfection defiantly, _proudly_ , like a badge of honour. And perhaps in their line of work they are, their mere presence a reminder of what you’ve done, what you’ve seen. That you’re still _alive_.

The fact that Carisi is ten years his junior has always been his go-to excuse whenever he finds himself contemplating anything beyond playful flirting. But Carisi’s a thirty seven year old man, a seasoned Detective who has seen the worst New York has to offer. Maybe it’s time he started to remember that.

“Wow, you really are hot,” Carisi murmurs and Rafael’s stomach swoops in the same way it used to when Lauren Sullivan would sweep her hair over one shoulder when she talked to him. Then, as if nothing had happened, he sits back down, a self-satisfied smile pulling at his distractingly pink lips. “What are you in the mood for?” He asks, finally swiping up the menus.

What indeed.


End file.
